


Every Time We Touch

by threeplusfire



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Light BDSM, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Modern Vampires AU, Multi, Mysteries Abound, News Station AU, PR firm AU, Space Intrigue AU, Tennis coach AU, Wet Dream, cross dressing, french restaurant AU, striptease
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: A collection of ficlets for a prompt meme of semi-nsfw and nsfw situations. Each chapter involves a different pairing and/or alternate universe scenario.





	1. Leaving hickeys on the neck

**Author's Note:**

> In the first piece, Trott's a broadcast news reporter recently promoted to anchor on the 10pm local news slot. Ross is in charge of the technical crew working at the studio.

The florescent lights of the studio hallways gave Trott a headache. They hummed so loudly. Working the regular 10pm broadcast as an anchor was a big promotion from being random fill in reporter but he still wasn’t used to the new job or the steady paycheck. It wasn’t much but it was definitely better than before. It helped to be in a new city, even if he hadn’t bothered to unpack most of his apartment. The less he had to look at his things, the less he had to think about what he left behind.

 

This side of the building was empty so late in the evening. The offices were mostly dark. Downstairs the studio was humming, bustling with people setting up for the week night broadcast. That was were Trott should be instead of wandering around the business offices. He wondered if something had happened. But if there was news, everyone would know. The phones would be ringing like crazy.

 

“I have to be on air in twenty minutes,” Trott muttered as he walked swiftly into the conference room, letting the door fall shut behind him. “What was so important I had to come all the way over here--”

 

Ross shoved him hard against the door and covered his mouth in a kiss. Trott’s first impulse was to push him back, to complain that he’d already sat through hair and makeup for the past half hour, that he didn’t have time to get fixed up again. He was technically supposed to be down at the set, getting his microphone put on and going over any last minute changes. But all thoughts of work vanished as they kissed. He moaned softly, his hands coming up to grip Ross’ shoulders. The door was cold against his back through the purple dress shirt, even with the sleek undershirt on beneath it so no accidental nipples would cause a panic amongst the viewers. A little thrill of excitement shot through Trott’s gut and he shoved Ross unceremoniously back. 

 

“You _cannot_ give me a boner before I go on air,” Trott hissed. Ross smiled deviously, bracketing Trott with his arms as he leaned in again. He wore his habitual black button down and a pair of jeans. The head of the technical crew, Ross always managed to look casual but the slightest bit better than everyone else. Trott suspected his jeans were tailored to fit, the way they hugged his ass. He had a different pair of shoes for every day. Even the streaks of grey at his temples suggested calculation, highlighting his dark brown hair. 

 

“But you look so good in that shirt, I love it when you wear that color.” Ross leaned forward, nuzzling Trott’s neck. His breath tickled Trott’s ear. Ross nipped at his neck, teeth grazing just hard enough to sting.

 

“I have makeup on, you’re gonna mess it up.” Trott groaned as Ross mouthed at his neck. “Jesus titty fucking christ Ross, if you mark up my neck I swear--”

 

“You’ll what?” Ross chuckled against his skin. “Get even harder?” He pulled at Trott’s tie and the buttons of his shirt, working it open so he could kiss further down to base of Trott’s throat. 

 

This affair or whatever it was had been building up over the past year. They’d slept together after the Halloween party, their costumes bunched up and crumpled at the foot of Ross’ bed. Trott had woken with a hangover to find Ross making fried egg sandwiches, and had fallen a little bit in love. He was carefully not saying that though. He didn’t want to get burned if this wasn’t serious for Ross. 

 

“Ross!” Trott let his head fall back against the door with a thud. He closed his eyes, trying not to squirm at the scrape of Ross’ teeth or the wetness of his tongue. “You couldn’t wait until after the broadcast?” 

 

“Mmm nope.” Ross bit down, his tongue tracing the mark of his teeth in Trott’s skin. 

 

Trott whined, pulling Ross up to kiss sloppily. He was losing the ability to care about his makeup. Ross pressed him to the door until his earpiece buzzed like an angry insect. He pulled back with a grimace and pressed the mic button clipped to his collar.

 

“I’m on my way.” He raised an eyebrow at the question in his ear. “No, I haven’t seen Trott. Should I look for him?”

 

“You _fucker_ ,” Trott mouthed as he pulled his shirt back into place.

 

“Don’t worry,” Ross chuckled into his mic. He made a point of tapping it off before watching Trott adjust his tie. “Kim’s looking for you, cause you’re not on set.”

 

“Thank god you didn’t have your mic before that, _jesus_ Ross.”

 

Ross just smirked. He reached out to poke Trott. His pale eyes were full of glee.

 

“Better make sure you keep that collar high, wouldn’t want the ten o’clock news audience to see your hickey.” Ross waggled his eyebrows. “You go first, I’ll follow you in a second.”

 

Trott flipped him off as he stalked off down the hall towards the news studio. He hoped there was enough time to check himself in a mirror before he had to be on the air.


	2. Drenched while wearing white

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, Trott's a new line cook at a restaurant where Smith is the head chef. I wrote this entire overly long ficlet entirely because I was inspired by a menu of a holiday cocktails that included one made of Fernet Branca Menta, Averna, and dark chocolate liqueur.

The music in the kitchen was loud now that the restaurant was closed. Trott hefted a stack of plates fresh out of the industrial dishwasher. They were heavy and hot, and he was glad he’d left his jacket on to help Ramon with the dishes. They only had one guy washing dishes tonight, and someone had already cut all the busboys. The last few waiters were counting out their tips up front and cleaning the dining room. As the newest line cook in the kitchen, Trott knew all the grunt tasks fell to him. He didn’t mind helping Ramon or being a team player. He did mind the smirk from Turps as he lovingly, slowly cleaned the knives while Trott and Ramon washed everything else from his station. The other cookes were scrubbing at the burners and cleaning up the counters, shit talking each other about some game.

The door to the kitchen swung open and bounced off the wall, and the head chef Alex Smith marched in as his usual tornado of energy. He had his chef’s coat unbuttoned and his auburn hair was loose from the tight ponytail he wore under his cap during work. 

“Turps, what are you even doing? Wipe all those down and sharpen them later, the kitchen is a wreck! Come on!” Smith snapped his fingers, grinning as he spoke. Even when he was yelling, Smith usually had a smile. Trott hated it. That smile was distracting and unfair. 

“I know, I know,” Turps grumbled. 

“Kim, how are we looking over there?” 

Kim was the sous chef, in charge of all the line cooks. She’d been in the kitchen of Le Beau Parc with Smith since the beginning. Diminutive in stature, there was nothing small about her personality or her opinions. Trott thought she would happily stab someone who argued too much with her on the line. 

“Jean’s cleaning up the last of the mixers and we’ve got this side wiped down,” she called out. “If your lazy boys over there would get going on those pots and pans we could be done with this shit and to the bar by now. I suppose you were up there drinking with your buddy and that’s why you haven’t cleaned up a damn thing.”

“You heard her,” Smith laughed. He grabbed a couple pots and dunked them in the sink of hot, soapy water. Ramon shoved the racks of dishes into the machine and set the timer before turning to scrub at an especially filthy pan. 

As Trott squeezed by to load up another tray with dishes for the washer, Smith grinned at him.. It sent a painful sensation right through Trott. He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing with his face, if he should smile or ignore the man and keep working. They were shoulder to shoulder at the big sink, dunking and scrubbing at the dirty pans from the end of the night. Smith sang along to the music, shifting from foot to foot. 

They both reached for the same heavy stockpot soaking at the bottom. Trott pulled a little too forcefully, and didn’t expect Smith to grab it at the same time. The heavy pot of water went off balance and water splashed out to Trott. Ramon nimbly jumped back, swearing a mile a minute under his breath. Turps cackled, and Smith yelped in surprise as he dodged the water spilling onto the floor.

“Jean!” Kim yelled. “Bring me the mop!” In the back, a muffled shout answered as their pastry chef Jean put away the last of their tools. The drain in the floor gurgled as it sucked away the dirty water.

Trott froze, feeling intensely humiliated. He was soaked. The white tshirt under his jacket was drenched, clinging to him and revealing more than he would have liked. The dark outline of the tattoo on his stomach was visible above the waistband of his pants. It was his first day and he’d just made a dumb, rookie mistake. Hastily Trott grabbed a dish towel and covered his stomach, pretending to wipe at his clothes.

“Turps, go get some clean tablecloths from the laundry bag,” Smith said. He grabbed the pot and passed it over to Ramon. “Well at least you didn’t spill that all over the clean dishes, eh?”

The kindness of it embarrassed Trott further, and he could feel his skin burning. He stared at the sink, trying to keep from meeting Smith’s eyes. He was used to chefs who yelled, or threw things, or called you names. It was a loud kitchen at Le Beau Parc but no one had called him a pansy or make vulgar comments about his sexual habits or tried to slap him on the ass. Trott wasn’t sure quite what to make of it, how to navigate this unfamiliar territory. He clenched his jaw, and took a stack of hot plates to the shelves. He’d worked through worse things than being soaking wet.

“Go dry yourself up,” Smith said, throwing him an armful of of the pale blue tablecloths from the dining room. “We got this, it’s almost done.”

“Make sure you don’t drip on the floor!” Kim pushed him with the handle of the mop towards the hallway.

Trott leaned against the brick wall, hoping the coolness would calm the heat in his face. It was dimmer here, a stack of laundry bags piled up with all the cloth napkins, tablecloths, kitchen towels and aprons waiting for pickup from the laundry service. As he rubbed himself down, he heard a burst of laughter from the kitchen. Trott sat down heavily on a laundry bag and held his head in his hands. He listened to his coworkers, the clatter of dishes and the sound of the water running. He knew he needed to get up.

“Didn’t burn yourself, did you?” Smith’s voice startled Trott. 

“No, no, I’m good.” Trott jumped to his feet. His shirt was cold now, still damp on his chest. He was uncomfortably aware of Smith’s gaze.

“We’re pretty much done, let me get you a drink to make up for spilling dishwater all over you.” 

“I’m kinda still damp, I don’t think I’d be good in a bar.”

“We’ve got a bar here,” Smith chuckled. “Sips is still up front tinkering with stuff and doing the books, he’ll pour us a drink.”

Trott followed him to the front of the house, where the lights were off over the dining room. Only the soft gold lights above the bar were still lit, making the large space seem smaller and more intimate. The kitchen crew was gathered along the bar, cheerfully talking over each other. 

The other owner of Le Beau Parc, Chris Lovasz, leaned on the end of bar drinking something in a martini glass. He was tall and solidly built, his dark hair close cropped and his cheeks perpetually covered with a five o’clock shadow. He wore a high collared shirt unbuttoned at the neck, expensive cufflinks and black tuxedo trousers. No one called him Chris or Lovasz though. He was just Sips. Trott didn’t know where that nickname came from, and it felt very weird to be expected to address his boss as Sips.

“There ya are,” Sips grumbled as Smith approached.

“Like I would leave before I tried this new Christmas menu you keep going on about.” Smith pulled Trott forward. “Sips, meet Trott, our new line guy. He’s quick.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sips said. His dark eyes looked Trott up and down. “Why are you all wet?”

“Cause I dumped a pot of dishwater on him,” Smith said.

“What did I tell you about hazing the new guys?” Sips sighed.

“That’s not what I was doing!” 

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, sit down Trott and have a drink. We’re done for the night.”

Sips stepped around behind the bar, gathering up bottles and a shaker as he moved. Trott took the seat beside Smith at the end of the bar. On his other side, Kim and Ramon were seriously discussing the merits of various players for the women’s hockey team and the quarter final games today. Turps was describing something to Jean, Kay and Craig. His voice rose and fell with exaggerated emotion.

“Everyone’s got holiday cocktails, right, and it is always the same stuff - mulled wine and something that’s supposed to taste like gingerbread, maybe prosecco with cranberries and oranges, all that same old shit.” Sips talked as he poured bourbon into the shaker with some heavy cream straight out of the carton. “That’s boring. I’m thinking we go full tiki this year and make it fun.”

“Full tiki,” Smith said, watching with an amused look on his face. 

“Yeah, like how people just want to go to the beach and escape winter, get out of the snow? That’s what we’ll give ‘em. Beach drinks with Christmas bows.” Sips added some syrups from glass bottles straight out of the kitchen, labelled with masking tape. He added a couple shakes of bitters and mixed it all together before pouring it into a highball glass. Then he pulled out a tiny grater. To Trott’s intense surprise, Sips grated a little nutmeg on the frothy top before pushing it over to Smith.

“Drink up and tell me what you think.” Sips looked at Trott. “You like mint?”

“Yeah,” Trott nodded. He pulled his jacket closed, hoping he’d feel less chilly.

“Good, cause I just got this idea tonight.” Sips pulled down a bottle of Averna, and one of Branca Menta. He added some of the dark chocolate liqueur and a few ice cubes before shaking it furiously. Strained into a martini glass, it was flecked with ice and looked like chocolate mousse that hadn’t set up yet. Sips tucked a candied mint leave on the edge and pushed it towards Trott.

“Thanks.” The drink was thick and sweeter than he expected. It was exactly the sort of cocktail he should not drink. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since the staff meal at 4pm.

“Too dark, or should I lighten it up with something not booze?” Sips watched him curiously.

“It’s really good and people are going to get shit faced and drink three of them before they realize how strong it is,” Trott said honestly. He wanted to lick the inside of the glass. 

“You think people coming to a fancy restaurant want tiki drinks?” Smith asked skeptically. 

“Would you like it better if we called them French Riviera drinks?” Sips raised his eyebrows. “Would that suit the chef?”

“Yeah, why not?” Smith grinned and took another swallow of his bourbon punch. The ice cubes rattled in his glass.

Trott kept himself to two cocktails and then nursed a glass of water. His stomach continued to remind him how hungry he was as he watched his coworkers drink and laugh. When Smith talked, he waved his hands. Kim had a piercing laugh that could ring out over everyone else’s. Jean was quiet, an enigma with a faint French accent.

It was nearly 2am when they all stumbled outside. The lights were all off at Le Beau Parc, and the downtown street was quiet. It was chilly in the dark. Trott was glad his clothes were mostly dry. Several people piled into a taxi together, and Turps hurried off towards the stop for the night bus.

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.” Sips opened the door of the Mercedes parked at the side of the restaurant. 

“Nah,” Smith said, shaking his head. “I’m gonna walk. Trott will keep me company.”

Sips glanced at them. Trott hesitated from where he was unchaining his bike. 

“He’s wasted you know,” Sips said in a level voice.

It took Trott a moment to realize the comment was directed at him. He glanced at Smith who just grinned and shrugged.

“I’ll make sure he gets home,” Trott said carefully. 

Sips looked like he wanted to say something else. He sighed and nodded before sliding into his car. 

“Come on Trott. It’s nice. It will be good to walk.” Smith set off down the sidewalk. Trott wondered where the hell Smith lived, thinking it surely wasn’t the same crappy neighborhood where Trott was renting a studio apartment. He sighed and pushed his bike, hurrying to catch up with Smith.

The walk was not too long, shorter than Trott expected. Apparently being the head chef paid well enough for Smith to rent a house in an old neighborhood near downtown. Most of the places were small Craftsman style homes set back from the street. A few lots had been taken over, the original homes bulldozed and gleaming modernist McMansions erected in their place. Even in the dark, the new houses stood out. Trees planted along the street buckled the sidewalks with their roots and stretched overhead to make a canopy over the road. Trott walked slowly beside Smith, his bike bumping along. At least his ride home wouldn’t be too much longer.

“So what’s the tattoo?” Smith asked, breaking the companionable silence.

“What?” 

“On your stomach. I could see it through your shirt.”

Trott looked away, trying to compose himself to answer like a normal person.

“Another lifetime,” he answered, hoping the shortness of his words communicated how much he did not want to talk about the tattoo.

“I get you.” Smith nodded his head vigorously. “We’ve all got something like that in our past.”

Trott very much doubted that. At least Smith back off the subject as they crossed the street and headed up the hill. 

Smith pointed at a dark house with a wide porch. “That’s me.”

It was hard to tell what color it was at night. The little Trott could see was neat and well kept. He noticed there were not any cars in the driveway. He wondered if Smith lived alone.

“Don’t fall down on your way to bed,” Trott said. “I think Sips will assume I murdered you.”

Smith laughed with genuine delight.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks for walking with me.” Smith reached over and gave him a one armed hug.

Trott stiffened slightly, caught off guard. It only lasted a moment, just long enough for him to feel the heat of Smith through his chef’s coat.

“See you on Tuesday, Trott.” Smith jingled his keys as he walked up the steps. 

Trott waited until he was sure Smith was inside, and a light came on somewhere back in the house. The pale glow spilled onto the side yard. Trott wondered if it was Smith’s bedroom or his bathroom. If he walked back there, would he see Smith through the window or was it curtained? Why did he agree to walk his drunk boss home?

This was a path to bad decisions, and Trott knew he had to stop making those. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering if Smith was the kind of guy who took a shower when he got home, or if he just collapsed into bed. Did he strip off all his clothes first? He tried to make himself think of anything else, like the ride home or the climb up the stairs to his apartment, how tired and hungry he was. It only halfway worked. The light clicked off, leaving Smith’s home in darkness again. Breathing out a long sigh, Trott swung himself on his bike and pedaled towards home. He coasted down the hill, enjoying the empty streets. Tomorrow he could sleep in, make waffles and try not to think about his boss. 


	3. Wet dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt about having wet dreams, an AU scenario where Ross and Smith work for an international public relations agency.

“Smith? _Alex?_ You okay?”

Ross’ voice startled Smith into wakefulness. He flailed in the darkness of his room, knocking his pillow away and rolling onto his back. His heart pounded.

“Ross?” Smith croaked, trying to untangle himself from his sticky sheets. His boxers clung unpleasantly to his skin.

“Is everything alright? It’s five in the morning.” 

“ _Shit_ , I--” Smith fumbled for the lamp beside the bed. He winced at the sudden light. “I think my Google Home called you. _Fuck!_ ”

Ross laughed, too brightly for the situation. “Were you asleep? I was working on something and my phone buzzed.”

“I think? Ugh. I took a sleeping tablet earlier.” His mouth tasted horrible from the tablet. It was the middle of the hottest summer the UK had ever seen, and there was no relief even in the dark of night. Smith felt like he hadn’t gotten a good night’s rest in days. Even with the windows open and the fan running nonstop it was stifling.

“You talk in your sleep when you do that,” Ross said. “Remember on the flight to New York?”

“God.” Smith sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed at his face. He was profoundly glad Ross couldn’t see him right now.

“Anything you want to tell me?” 

“No. What? Why?”

Ross’ laughter crackled through the speaker of the small grey and white cylinder. Alex cursed the Google Home for listening to him talk in his sleep. What had he said?

“Night then, Smith.” 

“Right,” Smith sighed. He slumped, staring at himself. There was no sleeping now, at least not for the moment. He flipped off the Google Home.  


In his bathroom, he didn’t bother to turn on the light. He didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror. Smith stripped off his boxers, grimacing at the drying come sticking the fabric to his skin. He needed a shower. The water ran just barely lukewarm. Smith stuck his head under the spray, letting water run into his mouth to rinse away the taste from the sleeping tablet. 

The dream came back to him in fragments. The image of Ross on his knees, his hands resting on Smith’s thighs. Rubbing his face against the front of Smith’s jeans. The warm press of a mouth kissing his stomach as fingers tugged down his boxers. Ross’ head bobbing as he sucked Smith’s cock. The impossible satisfaction of Ross’ mouth on his skin, Smith’s hand pushing him down further and further.

Smith groaned and pressed his forehead to the tiled wall. At least the tile was cool against his flushed skin. He twisted the knob until the water was cold enough to give him goosebumps. It helped chase away the dream though it did leave him unfortunately wide awake.

Sleep was impossible. He stood naked in front of the fan in his bedroom, savoring the coolness of the water drying on his skin. Getting back in bed with his sweaty, tangled sheets was unappealing. Smith pulled on some clean boxers, and unplugged the fan. He carried it into his dark living room, lit only by the orange glow of the street lights below. All the windows were open, bringing in the faint sounds of a passing car and the pinging of the crosswalk sign. It was either far too late in the night or too early in the morning to be up but maybe this wasn’t such a bad choice. He could get a little work done before the sun came up and resumed broiling them all.

The glow of his laptop was too bright, and Smith angled the screen until it was bearable. He balanced it on a book, hoping that would keep his lap from feeling too warm. With his feet propped up on the coffee table, Smith logged into his work email. His computer had already signed into the slack chat automatically and it only took a moment for a message from Ross to appear on screen.

_ You’re up early ;) _

_ couldn’t go back to sleep _

_ a good publicist never sleeps _

_ haha are you ever going to bed? _

_ I’m going to become nocturnal for the rest of summer, maybe I can just work on all the Hong Kong accounts instead _

Smith sighed and minimized the window. Mortification still churned in his stomach. He replayed their conversation back in his head. Had he said something? Had Ross answered the call and heard Smith moaning in the grip of his wet dream about getting sucked off? There was no way to ask without opening himself up for further embarrassment. Smith let his head fall back against the sofa. Maybe he needed to unplug the Google Home at night. He never wanted this to happen again.

He wanted to call Trott and almost went looking for his phone. Trott could talk him out of this swirl of embarrassing, dark thoughts about how he would never be able to look Ross in the eye again. But his best friend would not appreciate being woken up at this hour to listen to Smith’s laments, and Trott’s fiancee would be doubly pissed about it. Smith tapped out a quick email asking Trott if they could have lunch or dinner or drinks as soon as possible.

The terrible summer wasn’t helping anything. Smith was miserable in the heat, his fair skin constantly on the verge of burning. At least the office had air conditioning. But the office also meant running into Ross several times a day ever since he arrived. Apparently someone had headhunted him right out of one of their rivals, a coup for them as Ross brought some big film and television clients along with him. He had a distressing habit of stepping into Smith’s office, with a question or a clever aside, several times a day. Smith didn’t want to tell him to stop even though it distracted him from his own work. They’d been assigned to work on a few projects together, such as the film festival in New York City that required both of them to be on site for the entire week. 

Ross was painfully attractive with those distinctive silver streaks in his hair. It helped that he was almost as tall as Smith, long legged and lanky in a way Smith liked. He’d seen Ross working out in the hotel gym one afternoon and the sight of him in his tight blue tank top and running shorts had haunted Smith for weeks. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d dreamed about Ross. At first Smith tried not to think about Ross when he jerked off, watching porn instead. But the longer the summer dragged on, the more Ross infiltrated his thoughts. He felt incredibly guilty the first time he jerked off in the shower, thinking about Ross in his running shorts. So he tried not to do it again, imagining his exes or movie stars or anyone else. But his dreams always turned towards Ross now. Some of them were perfectly innocuous. Most of them were sexual. Smith would wake up, aching and horny. He did not often resist the urge to jerk off in those situations. 

The message window blinked on his screen. With a sigh, Smith moused over to it.

_ Hey do you want to get breakfast before work? Since we’re both up. Not like, toast but like a real meal. The Regency starts breakfast at 7... _

Smith stared at the blinking letters for a long moment, wondering how to respond.

_ they make those American pancakes I fucking love _

He remembered their New York trip suddenly. No matter how late they were up the night before, Ross always woke up in time to eat breakfast at the hotel. He’d bring up a plate with two thick pancakes and a banana for Smith who never managed to make it down in time.

_ sure sounds great _

_ meet you there :) _

Smith stared at the emoji. He didn’t know what to read into it other than Ross’ perpetually sunny smile. He put the laptop on the coffee table and got up to find some clothes.


	4. Tying the other up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a May December romance, with a younger Smith falling for his hot older coach Sips for the prompt of tying the other person up. There's an age gap of about a decade but everyone's an adult, informed consent, etc.

The sunlight beat down on the court, soaking the back of Smith’s shirt. It made him squint and wish he’d put on his sunglasses before they started. In his faded Columbia shirt and blue gym shorts, he knew he didn’t look like a serious player. The white headband on his forehead itched where his hair was trapped under it. Fidgeting, Smith tried his best to hit the balls consistently. Half of them flew right back into the net.

Smith was tired. He didn’t want to practice ground strokes again but his coach was insistent. Whenever Sips got an idea in his head, it was hard to persuade him to drop it.

“Come on Smiffy, get your ass over here.” Sips stood at the end of the court in his hot pink visor, the sweat bands at his wrists the same lurid color. He wore a pink polo shirt and white shorts. Smith thought uncharitably that it made him look like a flamingo, if a flamingo was a middle aged man who decided he wanted to coach tennis for a living.

“What is that?” Smith pointed with his racket  at the giant rubber band in Sips’ hand.

“Resistance band.”

“What for?”

“You put it round your ankles, so when you’re stepping you gotta put extra effort into it.” Sips demonstrated with his hands, stretching the band between them. The muscles of his arms flexed in a way Smith found attractive. 

“And this is going to help me how?” Smith grumbled. He wiped his arm across his face. Despite his own sweatband, he was still sticky. The summer was lingering too long. In the humid air off the ocean, Smith was sweltering. He wondered why it had to be Florida, of all places.

“Don’t be a smart ass. Put it on and do your strokes.” Sips tossed the rubber band at him. 

Cursing under his breath, Smith fumbled his feet into the resistance band. He could stand normally, the rubber already slick on his skin. But stepping in any direction was awkward as he tried to move without tripping over himself. It was harder than Sips made it look too. 

“Side to side, come on, you know how to do this.” Sips watched him, a water bottle in one hand and the stop watch in the other. “We’ll do 45 second intervals. Ready? Go!”

“Fuck,” Smith hissed under his breath. He wasn’t ready. He wanted to throw the racket over the net and retreat inside into some air conditioning. His shoes scraped across the court as he sidestepped, swinging his racket and trying to make it look more graceful than he felt. Sweat trickled down his back, running into the waistband of his shorts. He could taste the salt when he licked his lips. The air stirred fitfully around him, not doing much to cool him down. He stepped and stepped, swinging his racket at imaginary balls. His calves burned, and his thighs were starting to strain as he kept weaving back and forth with the band around his ankles. It didn’t seem like much at first but the pressure built. Smith didn’t know if he liked this or not. On one hand, the restraint made it simpler. He couldn’t lunge or be careless. On the other, he chafed against it, constantly trying to break free.

It felt like hours before Sips raised his hand and called a halt. Smith stumbled out of the band and into the shade at the side of the court. His water bottle wasn’t cold but it helped.

“Why are we doing this, Smiffy?” Sips asked. He had his arms folded over his chest. Again, Smith thought of flamingos.

“I don’t know, you’re the coach.” Smith sucked down half the bottle of water, the plastic crinkling under his hand.

Sips sat down on the bench. “I meant, why am I coaching you to play tennis like this? Are you going to enter a tournament? Train for the Olympics? What do you want to do? It would help to know, so I could figure out what you need.”

Smith chugged the rest of his water to avoid answering the question. But SIps kept staring at him, his dark eyes patient and curious.

“You know who my dad is,” he said finally. He couldn’t look at Sips while he spoke.

“Yeah, I do.” Sips shrugged. “Which makes it weirder, frankly, that he hired me in the first place. I would have thought he’d be coaching you himself, or that he would have started younger--”

Smith laughed and it came out entirely too angry. He checked himself. He could feel Sips, silent now, still watching him.

“I am an eternal disappointment to my father. That’s why he hired you and washed his hands of me.” Smith stared at the house as he spoke. It was too big, too empty with only him living there. The housekeeping service came twice a week. With his parents gone to London, there was hardly anything for them to do. 

The silence dragged on with only the occasional bird and the rustle of the palm trees. 

“Do you even want to play tennis?” Sips asked. “If you don’t, we can stop this.”

Smith made a small frustrated sound, his jaw clenched.

“I do want to play, I just…” He trailed off. Anything that finished the sentence sounded terrible, too personal, too needy, too embarrassing.

“Let’s just play then. Forget the drills. Just a game or two.”

Smith scoffed. 

“What, you think I’m so old all I can do is coach?” Sips chuckled. He picked up his racquet.

 

* * *

 

The week was better after that supremely awkward Monday morning. They played games and Smith found it easier than he expected. Even when he and Sips trash talked each other, breathlessly racing around the court, it never cut him to the quick or made him feel like shit. Sips didn’t let him win just because Smith was obviously a terrible player. He could tell when Sips pulled his shots and when he really went for it after a few games. After they played, Sips would demonstrate things for him like they were equals. It stopped feeling like lessons. It was easier to play when it didn’t feel like his every moment was being judged and critiqued. 

The feeling of friendship extended to Smith asking Sips if he wanted to go swimming on Friday afternoon. It was hot for this late in September, the sky full of puffy cotton ball clouds. 

“Swimming?” Sips echoed. He wiped his face with the small towel and stowed his racquet in the oversized bag he carried. 

“Yeah, I mean, I usually do in the afternoons.” Smith didn’t say that he was lonely and tired of being the only one here.

“Do you even know anyone in Palm Beach besides me?” Sips asked, looking at Smith with one of those curious gazes. Today he wore a neon green shirt, with matching sweatbands.

“Sure,” Smith snorted. “I know the housekeeper that shows up on Mondays and Thursdays. I know the guy who works at the 7-11 because that is the only thing in walking distance. I know the guy who comes and takes care of the lawn, too.”

Sips laughed. “What are you even doing here?”

“Exile,” Smith said. He didn’t manage to make it sound as lighthearted as he wanted.

 

* * *

 

Sips had swim trunks in his car, claiming that everyone in Florida was always prepared that way. His trunks were purple, with neon palm tree silhouettes. The mansion’s yard was divided by a narrow garden, a row of old magnolias surrounded by pond apple bushes and coffeeberry shrubs. On one side was the tennis court, baking in the sun. On the other, a rectangular pool stretched out, deeper in the center than the ends. It was surrounded by rust colored tiles that always burned Smith’s hands. On the whitewashed patio, lounge chairs were strewn about and a dining table sat under the verandah. The mansion’s windows reflected the sky, gleaming. It was a new place, made up to look old with stucco and tile. But the enormous windows with their polarized glass were pure 21st century.  

They lazed around and swam as the sun went down behind the house, the long shadow stretching over the tennis court and the pool. It wasn’t the beach with the waves and white sand but it was private. The salt water filter gave it that tang without any of the over chlorinated burn other pools all seemed to have. The high walls, palm trees and hedges all surrounded the property, isolating them from the rest of the world. Only the birds and the occasional sound of a vehicle intruded.

The isolation gave Smith the courage to splash at Sips, laughing at the way he sputtered with a face full of water. Blinking, Sips splashed him back. They churned up the pool, dancing around each other in the shallow end. Water lapped against the sides, the waves splashing the tile.  Finally Sips lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Smith and wrestled him to a stop. 

“Not so funny now, eh?” Sips chuckled. He pushed Smith up against the side of the pool. His body was warm from the sun and the water, solidly muscled and tanned. Smith felt pale and freckled beside him. Even after almost a month in Florida, he hadn’t acquired the bronze hue everyone seemed to have.

“You looked hilarious,” Smith laughed. He strained to free his arms. Sips was a lot stronger than he expected. The edge of the pool dug into his back. Without thinking Smith pushed forward, his hips flush with Sips. There was an electric frisson between them, wet skin and swim trunks sliding against each other. It gave Smith goosebumps.

He wasn’t expecting the kiss. Sips tasted like pool water, his mouth hot on Smith’s.

“You are too goddamn young for me,” Sips groaned quietly against his lips. “Twenty three?”

“Twenty three,” Smith agreed, though it didn’t seem so young to him. 

“I’m thirty four, so we’re definitely breaking that half your age plus seven rule.” Sips pulled back. When Smith tried to follow him, he pressed his palm flat to the center of Smith’s smooth chest. He was hairless where Sips was covered in a soft, dark down. 

“I want to,” Smith whined softly. They were the same height, eye to eye. Smith tried not to stare at Sips’ mouth, his lips pink and pressed together. 

“I’m your coach.”

“It’s not like I’m in school or something. I’m a consenting adult. Hell, I’m not even the one paying you.”

Still, Sips watched him.

“If this is some fucked up way to get back at your dad--”

“My dad doesn’t like me because I’m not a prodigy and I’m queer,” Smith said, his voice sharpening in the twilight. “So either way, he’d be pissed at me right now whether I kiss you or not. Did he tell you? Were you just supposed to punish me?”

He hadn’t expected anything, just wanting to vent the simmering tension that underlaid everything. Smith felt exhausted, deep breaths making his chest ache. Maybe he should just go lie down in the dark and forget this happened. 

“He didn’t say anything other than to ask my rates, confirm I was available and book three months in advance,” Sips said quietly. The pool water lapped against their sides. “Has it all just been punishment for you?”

“No,” Smith whispered. 

“I think you’re lonely,” Sips said after a moment. He pulled Smith into a hug, resting his chin on Smith’s shoulder. “I think you’re stuck here for whatever reason and you’re lonely and this would all--”

“I’d still want to kiss you,” Smith interrupted. “I wanted to the first time I saw you.”

Sips chuckled again, a bass rumble in his chest.

“If you don’t believe me, you can look at my laptop. I have a video bookmarked, Coach Fucks Younger Guy, and I--”

“Jesus Smiffy!” Sips laughed. He tried to smother it, but the sound burst out of him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What?!” Smith felt his face flush. 

“That is just the most amazing come on,” Sips continued, wiping at his face as he laughed. “Hey I’m really into you because I have a fetish for coaches and I’ve been watching this porn video on repeat--”

“That’s not what I said!”

“Oh my god, does he look like me? Is he wearing a headband? Is it the shorts? I gotta know.” Sips stepped back, clutching his sides as he laughed. It was such a joyous sound. “Do I have a porn doppelganger? Oh my god.”

Smith felt a giggle in his throat. The sight of Sips’ hilarity was infectious. He tugged Sips towards the steps of the pool.

 

* * *

 

Of the many fantasies Smith had entertained over the course of the week, none of them involved Sips unable to control his laughter as he watched a porn video of Smith’s laptop. He wasn’t sure if he should be horrified or aroused.

“Shit, he does look like me! Who is this chucklefuck?” Sips cackled as the man on the screen fucked a buff, younger guy who looked like a football player. 

They were in Smith’s bedroom upstairs. When they walked in, Smith could see Sips glancing around. It was as impersonal as a hotel room, all the furniture picked out by his mother after they bought the house. He’d never even spent the night here before his parents sent him down here at the beginning of September. Even the art hanging on the pale blue wall, some weird abstract fruit, had nothing to do with him.

His window looked out at the pool, floor to ceiling glass. The carpet was short, gold colored. A large bed took up most of the room, a bronzed frame with curling iron swirls on the headboard and the footboard. Smith had kicked it more than once in his sleep. There was a small desk and chair, a bookshelf filled with random books Smith had never read, and a console holding a television, his Playstation and his camera. The door opposite the bed opened into the walk in closet and the en suite bathroom.

Sips leaned over the desk, watching the laptop. The sounds came through the speaker, tinny and distant. Smith sat on the edge of the bed. 

“How many coaches have you fucked?” Sips asked, not looking at him.

“None.” Smith’s fingers restlessly pulled at the tangled bedding. He hadn’t bothered making the bed this morning. He was so distracted by the creased pile of the sheets that he didn’t realize Sips was standing in front of him until his hand lifted Smith’s chin.

“You ever let someone tie you up like that?” Sips jerked his head back to indicate the laptop, where the video was still running. On the screen, the football player was tied to a weight bench by his wrists and ankles. 

“Yeah.” 

“When was the last time you got tested?”

“Six months ago,” Smith said. “I’m good.”

“You sleep with anybody since then?”

“No.” 

“This is still a bad idea,” Sips said with a rueful sigh. He leaned in to kiss Smith, his tongue flicking gently over Smith’s parted lips.

“I’m big on bad ideas.” 

“Are you now?” Sips’ hand pushed up into Smith’s still damp hair. “Cause I have a few.”

Smith lost track of time in the kissing, enjoying the sensation of Sips looming over him. He blinked hazily as Sips pushed him back up on the bed and yanked off his swim shorts. Naked, Smith stretched out, watching Sips take in the sight. He’d turned on the bedside lamp at some point. The soft yellow light made the room seem smaller, more intimate. 

Sips had one of the resistance bands from his gym bag. He tied to the footboard, and looped it around Smith’s ankle. Then he did the other foot.

“Squeeze your legs together,” Sips said. His voice was calm.

Smith just managed to close his thighs, straining with the effort. Shortened in the binding, the resistance bands were even harder to work with now. 

“Fuck,” Smith gasped, letting his legs part.

“Can’t keep ‘em closed, can you?” Sips smiled, stroking a hand down Smith’s thigh. 

“No.” Smith moaned, arching up as Sips’ hand slid up to his chest. He pinched one of Smith’s nipples.

“Give me your hands, Smiffy.” Sips used another resistance band to tie his hands together, hooking the end of the loop around one the curlicues in the headboard. 

Smith felt himself sinking into the warm relaxation he felt when he was tied up, unable to get off the bed or go anywhere. He closed his eyes, rubbing his face against his arm. Sips hands stroked his skin, caressing him gently. He felt the mattress dip as Sips climbed onto the bed to lay beside him. He’d lost his swimsuit, and his skin was soft from the pool. He didn’t seem to have a tan line, and Smith wondered if he laid out in the sun naked or if he went to a tanning booth.

“Look at me,” Sips said. He leaned over Smith, propped up on his elbow. “This stops the minute you say  _ stop _ , okay?”

“Okay,” Smith whispered. 

“You still want to do this?”

Smith nodded, moaning a quiet yes. He leaned his head into Sips’ hand.

“Pretty boy with your legs wide open, you just want someone to touch you, don’t you?” Sips’ voice was rough with desire, and he spoke quietly into Smith’s ear. His hand travelled down the length of Smith’s body, slipping between his legs to stroke him. 

Smith groaned, straining against the resistance bands. The more he pulled on them, the more tired he became. His muscles trembled, worn out from a day of tennis and swimming. Sips’ hand on his cock moved into slow, firm strokes. 

“You still with me?” Sips asked, nuzzling Smith’s face.

“ _ Please _ .”

“Please what?”

“Please get me off.”

“I want to see how long you can stand it.” 

Sips edged him mercilessly, stroking him until he was almost there and then letting go. Again and again, he brought Smith right up to the brink of an orgasm. His lips moved over Smith’s neck, kissing him as he murmured encouragements. Every touch thrilled Smith, lightning in his veins. Sips even rubbed his own erection against Smith’s thigh, shamelessly grinding against him while Smith pleaded incoherently for more, for anything.

When Sips climbed on top of him, Smith strained weakly against his bonds. The weight of Sips’ body pressing him down on the bed, anchoring him, made him drift deeper into the moment. He felt limp, relaxed and pliant except for his aching cock. 

“One day, Smiffy.” Sips panted in his ear, his breath hot. “One day I’m going to fuck you like this. Not today, but one day. It will be so good. You’ll be so hot and tight, and I’m going to fuck you until you come.” He reached between their bodies, slick with sweat, and adjusted until their cocks were side by side. 

Smith’s body jerked like he’d touched a live wire. Pleasure white outed all his awareness as Sips jerked them both to a finish, their bodies so hot and close Smith couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began. He closed his eyes, crying out wordlessly. 

When he came back down from the moment, Sips was still on top of him. He propped himself up with both hands, looking down at Smith. Only the slight furrow to his brow gave away his concerns.

“Hey,” Smith said. His voice cracked.

“Hey there.” Sips smiled then. “You’re back.”

“Mmhmm.” 

“I’m gonna untie you, then get a towel, alright?” 

Smith nodded, letting his eyes close once more. He felt the bed shift as Sips unfastened the resistance bands, heard the soft thumps as they were tossed to the carpet. In the afterglow, Smith drifted dreamily.

“Still awake?” Sips asked in a low voice. He was back, one of the bathroom towels in his hand. Gently, he wiped the mess of sweat and come off Smith. Then he laid down beside him on the bed. Smith gratefully let Sips spoon him. He would have drifted off to sleep in that moment except for the growl of both of their stomachs.

“Goddamn it,” Sips grumbled, his voice betraying his amusement.

“Let’s order a pizza,” Smith suggested with a yawn. He wondered where he’d left his phone.


	5. Strip tease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt requesting a strip tease scenario, a very science fiction future strip club in space. Yes, I did think it was very funny to call a space yacht the Yeovil.

The distant thump of the bass beat came through the wall. Smith always expected it to rattle the mirrors of the long dressing room. He paused, staring at his reflection and waiting for the mirror to shiver.

His reflection stared back at him, red hair pulled back with a headband to keep it out of his way while he did his makeup. He tilted his head back and forth, making sure his foundation was smooth and he hadn’t left any jarring lines where it blended into his neck. His eyelashes were naturally thick, so he only added a touch of mascara instead of false lashes like several of his coworkers. He’d gone for the smoky eyes tonight, black and grey mixed with a bit of gold glitter. Smith gently dusted his cheeks with a bit of the fine glitter to give himself a sheen. When he finished his face, he’d run the brush over his legs to add a little sparkle. 

Smith’s legs were part of his success. He was taller than anyone else working at the club. In a pair of heels, he could tower over anyone who walked in the door. The same treatment that nuked the hair that used to grow from his jaw had smoothed his legs and arms and chest. Everything but the golden brown trail of hair in his crotch was gone. 

He swiped on the matte lipstick, the soft rose color a few shades darker than his natural color. Its best feature was that it stayed put, meaning he didn’t have to slip away to touch it up or be careful that it didn’t stain the rim of his glass. 

“Smith!” The door banged open, bringing a burst of music and the Korean vocals of whatever retro Kpop hit the DJ had put on. Kim pushed into the room, wearing her usual scarlet suit. Few people realized she was the manager of Tech Noire at first glance. She was tiny in the crowd of dancers preparing for the stage and the floor of the club. It was a busy Friday night, the crowd full of people on holiday and workers blowing off steam. 

“What is it?” Smith asked reluctantly, not responding to the urgency in Kim’s voice. In the year he’d worked at the club he’d grown used to Kim’s personality and the intensity with which she approached even the most mundane things. It was only time to worry if Kim got quiet.

“I got a private client for you, get your ass up and ready!” Kim exclaimed. Her eyes glowed purple from her implants.

“What client?” Smith was mildly interested but didn’t get his hopes up. Just because someone shelled out the credit for a private room didn’t mean they were going to tip well. The last one just wanted someone to nod sympathetically while he spilled out some boring story about his ungrateful wife and kids back home at some asteroid belt colony. Smith had walked out three hours later with hardly anything except a headache and simmering fury that he’d wasted so much time. If he’d been dancing or even just working the floor, he’d have a fat collection of credits.

“Real high roller,” Kim said with relish. “Just what we need.”

Smith sighed and pulled the headband off to run his fingers through his hair. The tips just brushed his shoulders, concealing the dataport in the back of his neck. He’d dyed it recently. The reddish waves were brighter than his normal hair color, and the tips were metallic gold. An expensive trip to the salon but Smith had a look to keep up and enough regular tips to make it worthwhile. It contrasted nicely with his eyes, the bluegreen of the oceans down on the planet.

“This is not like that last guy, I swear.”

“You say that…” Smith let his voice trail off as he stood up. Even barefoot he was still at least a foot taller than Kim. He wore a simple black g-string. From the rack against the opposite wall, Smith pulled off the gold sequined mini dress. It was very mini, just barely covering the curve of his buttocks. Fringe swayed around his thighs as he pulled the dress down. The halter neck had a snap, making it easy to put on or take off. The dress clung to his body, the sequins shifting and reflecting the light like scales. It reminded Smith of the last serial he’d watched, a fantasy show with dragons. When his day off came round, he planned on watching the rest of it. 

“You know the _Yeovil_ came in today.” Kim took one of the empty chairs by dressing table, propping her feet up. She wasn’t interested in watching Smith dress. Smith suspected her tastes lay somewhere else.

“Is he off the _Yeovil_ then?” Smith raised an eyebrow. The enormous spaceship had docked earlier at the station orbiting the water planet Wrasse. Most of the activity in Ceres Station was tourism so it wasn’t unusual for the private ships of the wealthy to arrive. But the Yeovil was somewhere between wealthy private ship and government class. It belonged to the Old Earth empire, an alliance of families that could trace their lineage all the way back to the original human planet. It was a level of wealth that Smith could not even imagine. 

“Mate, he owns the _Yeovil_.” Kim smiled her Cheshire cat grin, her teeth looking a bit too big and sharp. “One of the Trotts.”

“What is he doing here?!” Smith turned around, unable to keep the surprise off his face.

“This is a quality establishment,” Kim said with a shrug. 

“Not that quality,” Smith muttered. He caught Kim’s annoyed expression and winced. “Sorry. Just. Why?”

“Hell if I know.” Kim stood up and straightened her jacket, leaning forward to check her slicked back hair in the mirror. “What I do know is that I’m sending my best dancer up to entertain him so hurry your pretty butt up there. He’s booked the whole floor for a couple hours. Give him whatever he wants.” Kim gave him one of those looks that said  _ don’t fuck this up _ . Then she was out the door, slipping back into the club to keep an eye on business.

Smith kept wondering why someone rich enough to own a gigantic spaceship just for fun would end up at a tourist station strip club. It was an expensive club, and a nice one. Worlds better than the places where Smith had learned to dance. Still. It was just a waypoint, a place Smith had stayed longer than he expected. It wasn’t a place he imagined seeing someone who belonged to one of the richest families in the galaxy. He slipped his feet into a pair of heels as he headed up the backstairs to the private rooms above the main section of the club. 

In the employee hallway, Smith paused to take a breath. He opened the data feed from his implant, scanning the news to see if there was anything about why the Yeovil was here. There wasn’t anything useful and he didn’t have time to go digging. He closed his eyes, put on his best customer service smile and slipped into the private hallway with its plush carpets. 

Halfway down the hall, a man stood outside the door to the biggest suite. He watched Smith approach. Up close, his eyes were a washed out blue that was almost colorless. Combat augments, Smith thought. It only surprised him to see one bodyguard. He’d expected the hallway to be full of them. 

“Hi.” Smith stopped, directly in front of the bodyguard. The man was tall, almost as tall as Smith. He was pale, the dark grey uniform he wore intensifying his pallor. His eyes raked up and down Smith. The gaze was so direct and uncomfortable. Without a word, the man opened the door and gestured for Smith to enter. If he had a weapon, Smith couldn’t see it. 

Smith was painfully aware of the bodyguard’s presence behind him as he entered the private suite. Inside, there were two steps down into a plush carpet. Overhead, a small chandelier glimmered with golden crystals that lit the room. The walls were paneled and gilded in abstract patterns. The room was decorated in more red and blue, the plush chairs and sofas scattered around. A door in the corner opened into a gleaming tiled bathroom, complete with a bath and shower that would actually dispense real water. A small stage was set against the wall on his left, complete with a pole and a row of colorful spotlights. Opposite the stage, the other wall was turned into a display of the station’s view of the planet, the blue green marble turning slowly beneath them in the black field of space. It made Smith dizzy to look at it. 

Standing by the bar, a slim young man studied the bottles on offer. He wore all black, close fitting pants and a long sleeved shirt, with one of those fashionable sleek shell jackets over it. His hair was bleached so pale it reminded Smith of fiber optic filaments. The sides of his head were shaved down, and the hair there was dark brown. He didn’t seem particularly tall, but he had the well built physique of someone who could afford time in any gravity he chose.

“He’s clear,” the bodyguard said from behind him. “Just a standard data implant and a regulator.” Something cold touched the back of his neck and Smith flinched. He tried to steady his breathing, hoping the bodyguard wasn’t going to accidentally shoot him.

The man turned, one well shaped eyebrow lifted. His face was angular, too good looking to be anything but wealthy. His smile was even and white. Smith had to use the regulator then to keep himself from reacting too obviously. He wasn’t used to finding his clients so attractive. Usually he had to use the regulator to flood his system with hormones to fake desire. 

“How interesting that he’s only got that.” The man waved one long fingered hand. “Cut the feed then, and leave us.”

“Are you sure?” Smith could hear the frown in the bodyguard’s voice. 

“It’s fine, Ross.” 

The cold pressure on his neck increased, and Smith suppressed a gasp when his data feed disappeared. He supposed it made sense. Perhaps they just didn’t want him selling pictures or video to the gossip feeds. Smith had to hope there was nothing more sinister behind cutting him off from accessing anything. He couldn’t even call for help, unable to access the club’s network.

“I’ll turn it back on when you’re done,” Ross murmured behind him. There was the click of the door and then Smith was alone with his client.

“Care for a drink?” the man asked.

“I should be asking you that,” Smith answered. He took a breath, feeling off kilter. He used the regulator to calm his nerves, and offered up a professional smile. “What should I call you, sir?”

The man chuckled and picked up a bottle. He filled one of the glasses with the dark red wine.

“I’m surprised they didn’t tell you my name, or that you hadn’t already pulled it from your feed.”

Smith shrugged, still smiling. 

“I already know yours, Smith. That’s the kind of name a person gets when they lose their old one.”

Smith’s smile froze in place. The regulator calmed the spike in adrenaline.

“You must have been born on a low gravity planet,” the man mused. He eyed Smith curiously. “That’s why you live on the station instead of down planetside, isn’t it?”

“I like to have options,” Smith said. He put a flirtatious edge in his voice even though fear flickered in the back of his mind.

The man smiled, and Smith could almost believe it was genuine. 

“Why don’t you just call me Trott for now?” He settled himself in the wide lounge chair, almost big enough for two people. “We can get to first names later, once we’ve gotten to know each other.”

“Of course, Trott.” Smith breathed a little easier, back on the familiar ground. He swayed forward in his heels. While Trott sipped at his wine, Smith put one foot up on the low stool by another chair. He bent down slowly to slip off his shoe, letting it fall to the soft blue carpet. Moving slowly, he slipped off the other shoe.

Unable to access his feed, Smith couldn’t turn on the music in the room. The silence was slightly unnerving. He turned slightly, so Trott could see how the dress left his shoulders bare, the way it clung at the waist and hips. The fringe shifted around his legs. 

“Very pretty,” Trott said. His dark brown eyes were fixed on Smith. “I like the freckles.”

Smith let himself blush slightly, instead of having the regulator tamp down his reaction. He ran his fingers over one arm, where a light scatter of freckles colored his skin. “I keep thinking I should have them removed.”

Trott shook his head, and downed the rest of his wine. 

“That would be a shame… do you have them all over?”

“Perhaps you’d like to see for yourself.” Smith took a few steps closer so he was standing almost at Trott’s feet. The fringe of his dress brushed the back of Trott’s hand where it rested.

“I’d like you to take that dress off.” Trott’s low, deep voice sent a tingle twisting through Smith’s gut. It was a very direct statement. 

“No music, no show?” Smith lifted his hand, gesturing behind him to the stage. He suppressed the flutter of nerves. Usually dancing bought him some time, and kept him out of the client’s hands. Though he supposed someone from an Old Earth family had enough money to pay to ignore the club’s rules about touching. Kim’s instructions flashed in his mind - _give him whatever he wants_ \- and Smith wondered how far he was supposed to take those words.

Trott shook his head, setting the glass down. 

“Aren’t you enough of a show, like this?” Trott tilted his head, looking up at him. The moment felt far more intimate than Smith liked. They were alone, cut off from everyone. 

“You’ll have to tell me.” Smith shook his head, letting his hair shimmer around his face. He ran one hand up his body, the gesture tugging at the fabric of the already too short skirt. 

Smith kept his eyes on Trott’s face. He unsnapped the neck of his dress, letting it fall slowly forward. The fabric drooped, the light synthetic material weighed down by the sequins. Smith shifted his weight, cocking his hip to the side so the dress wouldn’t fall right off. He let it peel down, baring his chest and his dark pink nipples. 

With the dress hanging at his hips, Smith paused. He took in Trott’s gaze, the hunger simmering in his carefully controlled expression. The moment delighted Smith and made him nervous. He enjoyed the teasing. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen here though.

A small tug pulled the dress lower, the skirt clinging to the tops of his thighs. The curve of his stomach was visible now, and the trail of hair leading down to the shiny black g-string. Smith held the dress a moment longer as he turned to the side to give Trott a better view of the curve of his ass and the long line of his legs. The dress pooled at his bare feet, and Smith stepped out of it.

The room was warm, but Smith felt goosebumps along his back and arms as Trott watched him. His eyes were so dark they were almost black. 

Wordlessly, Smith turned around to give him a complete look. He bent over, picking the dress up off the floor, and he set the small bundle of fabric on one of the drink tables.

Trott was still silently watching him. 

Smith tamped down his emotions, and moved to straddle Trott’s legs. The wide lounge chair made it easy, enough room for his knees easily on either side. Smith didn’t sit all the way down, just enough to skim Trott’s thighs. He reached out to brush Trott’s hair off his forehead. 

“Hopefully you like what you see,” Smith said softly. 

Trott’s hand moved to rest of Smith’s thigh. 

“I presume the rule about not touching is what makes Tech Noire a club and not a brothel.”

“I’m not a prostitute or a sexbot,” Smith said. The regulator was keeping the edge off, making it easier to stay calm. He’d never fucked a client at Tech Noire. It helped that he never really wanted to, and it was easy to make the clients think the rules and his job held him back. 

“But you have to pretend to be interested in them, don’t you? Probably why you have that regulator chip.” Trott’s hand didn’t move, just stayed still on Smith’s thigh. It was warm. Under other circumstances, Smith might have enjoyed the touch.

“Doesn’t every job involve a bit of acting?” 

“What if I offered you a job?”

“I’m not a paid companion either.”

“It’s not that kind of job.” Trott smiled. “Well, it would look like that kind of job on the surface. But really you’d be a spy.”

Smith blinked, staring down at Trott.

“Let me make you a drink, and tell you all about it.” Trott sat up straighter, head tilted back to look up at Smith. He grinned, something very wild in the expression. “I think you might be _very_ interested.”


	6. Going down under the table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the request of going down under the table and shatsome. This might not be what you expected. Warnings for blood.

Sips leaned back in his seat at the table, looking out at the glittering city skyline. The moon had just risen, yellow and round over the tops of the buildings. The lights on the skyscrapers glowed cool and blue. A red neon pegasus spun slowly atop one of the buildings. He loved the view here. 

“If half of the work in your proposal is real, I’m very interested,” Sips said.

“It’s all true,” Alex Smith snorted. He rested his elbows on the table, fingers scratching restlessly at the grey tablecloth over the small round table. His fingernails were bitten down, his fingers scratched up. 

“Come on, you really want me to believe your lab over there has managed to do what no one here has been able to do in a decade?” They could have held this meeting anywhere else, but Sips wanted to ensure no one was eavesdropping. So they were in his home, a penthouse suite in one of the new towers. There were no plates on the dining table set by the floor to ceiling windows. Just glasses and a silver bucket full of ice. The bottle on the table was empty and so were their glasses. The light overhead was dimmed halfway, and the rest of the apartment was dark aside from a few small lights. It made them feel like they were suspended in the night, hovering over the city. 

“It’s not my fault that your side of the ocean has taken entirely the wrong approach to the problem,” Smith said. “It’s not about making a functional substitute. No one likes living on soybean shakes.”

“Ehh.” Sips waved a hand dismissively. He didn’t like it. But there were worse things, like starving. 

“Just because they drink it doesn’t mean they like it. Same goes for your substitutes.”

“It solves a problem,” Sips said evenly. 

“Not really.” Smith shook his head, and gestured out at the city. “What happens when the whole city needs it? Are you going to be able to scale your production? What happens when rationing hits, and people start getting killed in the streets? What you really need is a solution to the supply of real sustenance.”

“This isn’t like farming, hell. You can’t just turn ‘em loose in a field like a bunch of cows. Or even keep them in cages.” Sips frowned. 

“Yes, the UN would not like it at all.” Smith waved a hand. “I don’t think that will last much longer anyways. But we’re not talking about human rights. Nothing involved in this process is sentient.” 

Sips gave him a long, measuring look. Smith ignored it, instead drumming his fingers impatiently. For such an accomplished scientist, he looked rather young. He had a permanent sort of scruff, as if he hadn’t shaved for a few days. His beard was much redder than his brown hair. It was just a touch long, skimming the tops of his ears and curling up at the base of his neck. Sips wondered if he had been on the way to get a haircut when it happened. Maybe he hadn’t been thinking about it all. Smith seemed like the sort to get obsessively focused on his work. 

There were ways to change, but it was time and energy consuming. Most people just stayed the way they’d been when the Change happened. Sips was content with it. His hair was dark, not even going gray. He had a few wrinkles but they just made him look serious and businesslike. He was secretly glad he hadn’t quite developed the same pot belly many of his contemporaries had by the time everything happened. There was a roundness to his stomach but it was pleasing instead of making him look pregnant with a mini beer keg.

“Fully a quarter of the world’s population no longer even needs breathable air,” Smith said. “We’re changed, in ways that make the possibilities of what’s to come--”

“Please,” Sips interrupted with a grimace. “Don’t start with that space shit.”

Smith frowned, looking wounded.

“It’s a beautiful idea but you’re never going to get up in space.” Sips raised both his hands. “You know that, right?”

“There are ways--”

“Oh I’m sure you have ways,” Sips interrupted again. He rolled his eyes, unable to repress the sardonic smile. 

The argument was interrupted by the door sliding open from the foyer and Ross striding into the large, open living area. He was about a decade younger than Sips, but his hair was streaked with silvery gray. Naturally pale, with long dark lashes, he had a very unsettling stare. The Change had only made his blue eyes more crystalline. He’d been just pretty before. Now he looked unearthly. In his slim black suit, he moved like a shadow given substance.

He held a man by the elbow, gripping his arm like a vise. Sips blinked, surprised. He could practically hear the man’s heart beating from several feet away, the fear humming loud in the quiet room. He wasn’t very tall, and would fit neatly under Ross’ chin if he wasn’t straining to pull as far away as he could. He looked flushed and healthy, a golden gleam to his skin as if he got plenty of sun, and his brown hair was streaked with bleached blonde. His beard was neat and trimmed close, highlighting his jaw. He wore a thick cabled burgundy sweater and gray corduroy pants. The sweater was too big for him, and Sips felt certain it actually belonged to Smith.

“Look what I found when I got home,” Ross said in soft voice. His white teeth flashed in a quick smile. “He was lurking around the front door.”

“Get your hand off him,” Smith snapped as he rose to his feet so fast his chair clattered loudly to the floor. His hazel eyes flashed with green fire and his hands clenched. 

Sips sighed and tossed his napkin on the table.

“Ross, please let -- what’s his name? Let him go.” Sips waved his hand impatiently. “You should have just brought him in, Smith, jeez. You just left him waiting out there?”

“You didn’t say we’d be having guests.” Ross laughed and released the man’s arm. He stumbled and Smith jumped forward to keep him from falling. His glare was full of fury but Ross had an impenetrable facade. He stared back, unfazed and faintly challenging.

Ross was spoiling for a fight, and Sips made a mental note to do something about that later. 

“Did he hurt you?” Smith asked in a whisper. Sips’ keen hearing picked it up as if he’d spoken normally.

The man shook his head, lips pressed together tightly. Sips found him rather attractive, even aside from his heart beat and the flush of life in his skin. It was one of the few things he missed. He adored Ross’ pale beauty, but there was something ineffable and interesting about the way this man’s skin practically glowed with health and life.

“Ross,” Sips drawled. “It’s not nice to frighten our guests. Smith’s brought a very important business proposal and his partner is part of that, I take it?” He ended on a question, knowing the answer already. Sips had done his own research before agreeing to the meeting. There was a dossier that had photos, and he recognized the man outside of his lab clothes.

“Trott’s the best hematologist in the world. Better than anyone you’ve got working at Sipsco, that’s for damn sure.” As Smith spoke, his remained around Trott. It was a protective, possessive gesture. Sips forced himself not to smile. 

“Extremely talented, judging from the work samples you’ve shown me.” Sips rose from the table. He extended his hand and waited.

Trott stared at it, clearly evaluating the moment. His eyes were a dark brown. They darted from Sips to Ross briefly and back. Then he stepped forward to shake Sips’ hand. His grip was warm and solid.

“Mr. Lovasz.”

“Call me Sips, it sounds less sinister.”

“Sips.” Trott’s lips twisted as he wanted to make another comment.

Once everyone was seated at the table, Smith pulled out his tablet and began running through his presentation. Trott sipped at a glass of ice water, interjecting when he felt Smith’s explanations were insufficient. But mostly he let Smith’s enthusiasm carry the conversation. From time to time, Trott’s eyes wandered the room. The lights did not illuminate much in the wider room, except for a few pieces of art. Sips had spent time raiding the collection of the local art museum, buying pieces for himself. He had a fondness for some of the 20th century Pop Art with its bright, almost cartoonish colors.

Sips wondered what it all looked like to him. He also noticed Trott avoided looking directly at Ross. He didn’t seem perturbed by the bottle Ross brought to the table, or the wine glasses of red in front of everyone else. Sips watched him over the rim of his glass, drinking more than usual. It went to his head. This was the good stuff, from his private stock. He could see Ross’ eyes glitter, and the flush in Smith’s cheeks as he finished his glass.

“It’s too easy,” Ross said as he scrolled through the schematics for Smith and Trott’s work. 

“Mate, it is definitely not easy to build this.” Smith pointed across the table. “You try doing this in a place with strict laws about the use of human tissue and cloning.”

“Which is why you want to come here,” Sips said. 

“Yes,” Trott said. His voice was low. 

“How is this any better than using animals?” Ross asked. “Sure, it works, but it tastes bad and you never get the same kick from it.”

“It tastes exactly the same.”

“Bullshit,” Ross snorted.

“I’ve got a bottle of it, if you don’t believe me.” Smith glanced at Sips. “It’s here. He asked for proof of concept.”

“The bottle is in the kitchen,” Sips said. Ross gave him an incredulous look. “Go get it, we’ll give it a shot. Why not?” 

Muttering, Ross stalked off in the direction of the kitchen. It was all sleek black and white surfaces, empty and clean. Sips never cooked. The most he ever did was take glasses out of the cupboard and open the fridge. He wasn’t sure why they’d even bothered building it. 

Across the table, Smith pulled Trott’s chair closer to his side. He leaned in, one arm wrapped around Trott’s shoulders. They had an easy familiarity that was far beyond just being coworkers on a secret project that could upend society again almost as cataclysmically as the Change. 

“Do you fuck him?” Sips asked, his voice light and conversational. It took Smith a moment to catch his words. Trott glared at him immediately though, and that made Sips smile with genuine pleasure. 

“Because I know you have very strict rules over there, on your island about contact and relationships...”

“Does it matter?” Trott asked in a crisp tone while Smith sputtered.

“I’m curious,” Sips explained. “Because you must have used your own cells in parts of this process. The stem cells and tissue you had to get from somewhere, but in the beginning…” He raised his eyebrows, affecting an innocent expression as Ross returned to the table. “So does it taste like you?”

Smith hissed under his breath. Trott held up his hand to silence him.  _ Interesting _ , Sips thought. He admired the long fingers, the carefully shaped and cleaned nails, the callouses. 

“Do you want to compare?” Trott’s voice was low, quiet. “Will that convince you?”

“Yes,” Sips grinned. “I would love that.”

“Trott.” Smith looked uneasy for the first time that evening. 

Ross set the bottle on the table and it made a solid thunk. The liquid inside sloshed heavily, thickened by the cold. 

“Pour us all a round, will you?” Sips rose from his seat, his eyes on Trott as Ross filled the empty glasses on the table. 

To his credit, Trott did not back down. He held his chin up, kept his eyes on Sips. Only the flare of his nostrils and the movement of his throat as he swallowed gave anything away. Beside him, Smith looked increasingly edgy. When Ross leaned over him, deliberately grazing his shoulder with one arm, Smith twitched like someone had prodded him with an electric baton.

“Don’t,” Trott said softly. He moved away slightly from Smith. “It’ll be fine.”

“Ross.” Sips snapped his fingers.

Ross put his hands on Smith’s shoulders. From the grimace on his face, it not as gentle as Ross made it look. People often underestimated Ross’ strength. Everyone got something a little different out of the Change. It heightened Sips’ senses to an almost painful degree, and it made Ross monstrously strong. 

Sips wondered what the Change had given Smith. 

“If anything funny happens, I will break his neck and then yours.” Ross’ voice was jovial. His fingers kneaded Smith’s shoulders.

“If anyone should be paranoid, it should be me,” Trott said, narrowing his eyes at Ross.

“Well, a lot of people have tried to kill me for less.” Sips shrugged. He moved in front of Trott and knelt down. He was practically under the table and it stirred a long forgotten memory. A prom date, a rented tuxedo, kneeling under a table and lifting a skirt.

“Right.” Trott breathed out, and the slightest tremor rattled in his voice. He gave Smith a quick smile and then put his focus on Sips. 

It delighted Sips to see the effort Trott made to appear so calm and cool when he was actually terrified. Gently, he took Trott’s left arm and pushed the sleeve of his sweater up to his elbow. His fingers circled Trott’s wrist and he counted his pulse. It was fast but not too fast.

“I’d tell you it wouldn’t hurt but that’d be a lie.”

“It’s fine.” 

The look in Trott’s eyes said it definitely wasn’t fine. The look wasn’t exactly fear, at least not of the pain. Trott just looked like he wasn’t sure what to expect.

Sips moved Trott’s knees apart, crowding into the space. He knew how obscene it would look to Smith and Ross watching them. That was kind of the point. Sips had an idea of how this might play out. 

“Go on, do it.” Trott’s voice was barely a whisper.

Sips bent forward kissed the inside of Trott’s wrist. He let his tongue glide over the pulse, and down the inside of his arm. Above him, Trott breathed in sharply. 

When Sips’ teeth sank into his forearm, Trott didn’t scream. He moaned. Sips smiled against his skin. His hand slid up the inside of Trott’s thigh to rest on his crotch. Trott was already half hard. 

“Fuck,” Trott gasped, his voice high and breathy.

Sips pressed his hand down harder, bringing out another moan. He sucked at the wound, tasting the bright metallic blood. It practically fizzed on his tongue, an illusion brought on by the pleasure of drinking still living blood. He let himself have two good swallows before he reluctantly released Trott’s arm from his mouth. Sips wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and reached for one of the nice cloth napkins from the table. 

Beside them, Smith squirmed. His eyes were fixed on Trott, teeth worrying at his lower lip. Ross had leaned in, his arms resting on Smith’s shoulders now and his head leaning on Smith’s. He had that avid, voyeuristic look on his face.

“Nothing beats the real thing, eh?” Sips couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice. His hand was still firmly rubbing Trott’s erection through his pants. 

Trott’s eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. When Sips pressed the napkin to his arm, he opened them. His pupils were wide and black.

“Try it,” Trott whispered.

Smith handed him the glass, and Sips didn’t hide his dubiousness. Reading about it, hearing the proposal for blood from cloned, living tissue was one thing. He didn’t have any ethical qualms to worry about. His critics said his humanity vanished in the Change, so Sips really didn’t care. It all came down to the taste. It had to be worth it to fight the uphill battle to open up a major cloning facility.

Even chilled, the blood tasted good. The temperature muted the spark, but it tasted exactly like fresh human blood. It didn’t taste like Trott’s blood exactly, but it did taste completely human. It tasted alive. There was none of the dullness, none of the chalky, dead feeling from drinking blood substitutes. Sips felt himself frowning, and drained the glass in several long swallows. 

“Holy shit,” he finally said, staring at his glass. “Are you for real?”

Trott laughed weakly, a sound that broke into a gasp when Sips yanked down the zipper of his pants. 

“It’s good,” Sips said, his voice rough and surprised. “Better than good.” He pulled Trott’s cock out of his plain black underwear.

“Told you,” Trott smirked. He held his bitten arm to his chest as Sips fondled him.

Smith whined, watching them. Ross was still holding him back, or he might have shouldered Sips out of the way. There was a yearning in the way he looked at Trott. It wasn’t simple possessiveness, or worry that Sips might hurt him. It was something else.

“You love him so much you want to defect and bring your research here, huh?” Sips kept jerking Trott off as he talked. “Cause you’re not allowed to be together over there? True love, eh? Or just the sex is so good when he bites you? Did you always get hard for this? You’re completely human so it can’t come from the Change.”

“Does it matter?” panted Trott, trying to keep his gaze on Sips.

“I’m just curious about what I’m investing in.” Sips leaned forward and licked the head of Trott’s cock. Trott’s deep moan excited him. He seemed wired for pleasure in the face of danger and pain. Sips had known men like him before. 

“Someone should reward you for your good work.” Sips looked at Smith and Ross, both leaning towards them with different hungry expressions. “He’s got two arms, you know. Help a guy out.”

They didn’t need any more encouragement. Smith knelt down on Trott’s left, pulling away the bloodied napkin to lick at the punctures in his arm. On the right, Ross impatiently pushed up his sleeve and sank his teeth into Trott’s arm. 

Trott gave a full body shudder, his back arching. He let his head fall back, eyes closed as the two men sucked his blood. His cock throbbed in Sips’ grip. 

The sight of Trott lost to pleasure gave Sips enormous satisfaction. He lowered his mouth to Trott’s cock again and began to suck him off. The tremors in his body, the whimpers and groans, the wet sounds of of the other two drinking combined to a heady symphony of pleasure. Sips pushed his mouth all the way down, swallowing the length of Trott’s cock as his hands rubbed his hips and thighs. It did not take much to get him off in this state. Sips swallowed, enjoying the taste of come and blood mixing in his mouth. He sat back on his heels, licking his lips with satisfaction. 

Above him, Trott lolled in the grip of Smith and Ross. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling, his heartbeat gradually slowly. Smith held Trott’s head to his chest, his face buried in Trott’s hair. On his other side, Ross neatly licked away the smear of blood on Trott’s arm. 

“There’s a guest suite for you to stay in,” Sips said as he tried to rise gracefully to his feet without knocking into the table. Ross offered an arm, holding rock steady for Sips to brace against. 

“We have a hotel,” Smith said, his voice muffled in Trott’s hair.

“You’re defecting in approximately ten hours,” Sips declared. “Safer for you to be here until we have an official lined up to do the paperwork.”

“But our lab! _Our work_!” Trott struggled to sit up, trying to fasten his pants. “We’re not ready--”

Sips looked at Ross, who sighed and pulled a phone out of his pocket.

“Way to enjoy the afterglow,” he grumbled as he punched in a call. 

“There’s a team already in place to remove everything from your facility,” Sips said as if he casually sent a black ops crews into other countries every day. He preferred to operate in less dramatic ways but this was a special case. He could deal with a complaint from the Ambassador. It would be worth it. The political capital gained from solving the problem of blood for the quarter of the population who now required it to survive would be enormous. The Change had brought unparalleled chaos into the 21st century. He was going to start imposing some order on it.

“No going back now,” Trott said wearily. He closed his eyes and leaned into Smith. They embraced. Something about it was so intimate that Sips found himself turning away to give them some privacy. At the far end of the room, he could hear Ross relaying instructions to his contact. Helicopters would lift off in moments. Things were moving. He wanted to rub his hands together with glee. 

Sips picked up the bottle on the table, and poured himself another glass of blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, a quarter of the world's population was transformed into vampires almost overnight. In the resulting chaos, the world has come to live with blood drinkers in their midst. Sips is the north American CEO of a powerful agricultural tech company and was one of the first to work on a blood substitute in hopes of reducing tension between the human and Changed populations. Ross is his assistant/bodyguard/lover. Smith and Trott are scientists from the UK. Sips, Ross and Smith are all Changed, Trott is human.


	7. Pinning against the wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rare double feature! This continues in the AU of the previous chapter, where a sudden plague has changed a quarter of the population overnight into vampires. In this story, set a few years prior to the previous chapter, Trott and Smith meet for the first time a few years after the Change.

Trott pressed the back of his arm against his forehead, dragging it down to rub over his eyes. It was a habit he’d developed back in med school to avoid touching his face with his hands while he was working. The sleeve of his lab coat was pristine, bleached white in the industrial washers down in the basement. It was also rough, irritating the skin around his eyes when he rubbed too hard. 

He pushed away from the table and stood up from the wheeled stool. His back ached from hunching forward over his samples, scribbling down his observations with one hand while he peered into a microscope. When he stretched, there were a number of cracking sounds. The lab was cold and it made Trott’s joints ache. He put his arms over his head, gripping his elbows. It was long past time for a break. Peeling off his latex gloves, Trott walked around the room in a circle trying to warm himself up. His lab coat was thin, a size too big really but at least he could wrap it around himself or wear a jumper underneath. Today he wore an old red sweatshirt and a pair of faded jeans, eschewing the general decorum. It was Saturday, and no one else was around to raise an eyebrow. Trott didn’t believe that one’s lab work improved by wearing button downs and ironed trousers. He made a good faith effort to adhere to the general dress code but if he was working on the weekend he’d damn well wear jeans.

Supposedly any day now Trott would have a partner. Hopefully someone who didn’t care if Trott sometimes came in dressed like a university student instead of everyone’s idea of what a doctor should be. There were comments that Trott pretended he didn’t hear from some of his coworkers. Comments about his bleached hair, the fit of his clothes, his high cheekbones and plump lips. Trott hadn’t been called a twink in years after he took up running and lifting weights, so it caught him off guard to hear it now. His years in London had made him forget just how deeply homophobic many people still were. He just wanted his work partner not to be an asshole. Trott didn’t think that was too much to ask.

It would be good to have someone to split the workload of this project. It felt odd to spend so much time in the lab, and almost no time with an actual patient. Trott wondered a lot about where the samples came from, whose blood he was studying, who he was meant to be helping. He was used to working in a team, seeing other doctors and their patient. This sort of work reminded him too much of school and the pure research labs he’d eschewed to work directly in a hospital.

It was late, and he was tired. The lab ran at all hours, practically a 24/7 operation now. The government was generously funding it, albeit under the table. Officially it didn’t exist. The sleek logos on the directory panel all belonged to various medical technology companies but that was also a sham. The building looked ordinary enough, even with the tall fence and bulletproof glass doors. The real security was all but invisible. Since the Change had taken several members of the royal family, there was an impetus to finding answers to the plague. A private, unpublicized sale of a handful of old jewels had transformed a new modern building outside of Bristol into the government’s cutting edge research facility.

There were so many questions, and too few answers. They knew some of where it came from but the brief war that convulsed multiple countries meant so many answers to the how and why were bombed into oblivion. Now it was a terrible game of catch up, as they tried to reverse engineer ideas and study what was happening right now. No one had any idea if the Change was meant to be a beginning or an end. Anyone they could have asked was dead.

Right now Trott was alone with his thoughts. Not many people wanted to pull all nighters. Not that Trott could really blame them. It was easy to get caught up and lose track of time, work long hours. Quite a few of his coworkers were nervous about that, wearing watches that had alarms to remind them to pack it up and leave on time. Being out after dark had a whole new host of complications these days. The lab offered bus service for everyone, free of charge, from the lab to the new modern residential towers built just this year. They were filled entirely with entirely with employees and their families, from the cleaners to the heads of each division. Trott had a flat there, a spacious one bedroom that looked north. It was twelve floors up, and probably nicer than he really needed. Not that he spent much time admiring the view when he was home. He hadn’t even really unpacked from the move six months prior. Sometimes he had to go digging through boxes to find a book or a jacket and he contemplated spending a weekend really finishing the job. It was easier to just sink into his couch, eat take out and read until he fell asleep though.

Trott popped his shoulder with a wince. It would take hours and hours for there to be any significant change now that the experiment was in progress. He should probably go home, get some sleep. Or he could transcribe all his scribbles into proper records, because he couldn’t expect his future lab partner to read his notes in this state. That would mean getting a cup of coffee or tea, something to power through the rest of the night. 

He cleaned up his workspace, carefully putting everything away. The dimmed lights in the halls brightened as he walked swiftly through them, the sensors registering his presence. He took the stairs down to the floor of offices and meeting rooms below the hematology lab to drop all his things off in the small room assigned to him. The other desk in the room was still empty, waiting for his rumored partner. Trott’s side of the room was neatly organized, nothing out of place. His computer was off, the files on his desk all shelved, all the pens in a cup. He had a picture of his family, taken when he graduated with his PhD in a plain black frame, and a tiny potted cactus that seemed to thrive even in a windowless room. Trott dropped off his tablet and his mess of paper notes, and picked up his oversized mug from the shelf. It was black, with the London skyline etched in a rainbow all around the sides.

The employee break room looked like every employee break room he’d ever seen. A long rectangular room, not quite the right size of tables, chairs that were not fully comfortable, a long counter down one wall with an electric kettle and a drip coffee machine surrounded by baskets of sugar packets and creamer pots. Despite the huge money spent on the facility, the coffee machine was mediocre and people always left dishes in the sink. Fortunately for Trott, the cleaning crew had come through on Saturday morning. He peered at a bowl of apples and granola bars while the kettle heated. He set his mug on the counter before rifling through the boxes of tea bags in the cabinet.

When Trott turned around, there was a man standing in the center of the room.

“Fuck!” Trott squeaked, and dropped his mug on the floor. It shattered, pieces spinning across linoleum floor. 

“Bad luck,” the man said with a laugh.  He was tall, dressed in a blue hoodie, t-shirt and jeans. When he smiled, Trott could see the lambent glow of his eyes, a bright blue. 

“Fuck!” Trott repeated, his voice rising. He scrambled back along the counter, backing away. Was there anything in here he could use as a weapon? All the cutlery was plastic.

“Wait, hang on--” The man held out a hand. His voice was sonorous, so wonderfully musical that for a moment Trott paused. Then he remembered he was standing alone in the break room with a vampire. 

He broke and ran, hoping he could get back to his office. There was a panic button in his bag that would alert security. Maybe they could make it up in time, before the vampire broke down his door. How had he gotten in? Where had he come from? What if the security guards were already dead? Were there more?

Trott stumbled, skidding and trying to round the corner into the hall. He reached out but his hand slipped off the door frame. 

Before he hit the ground, the vampire grabbed his arm. Trott screamed, swinging wildly with his right hand. The punch connected, surprising both of them. Trott’s fist smacking into the vampire’s cheek.

“Hey!” The vampire looked pissed now, shaking his head with a startled frown. Up close, his eyes were even more shining. Incongruously, there were a few freckles scattered across his long nose and cheeks. His hair was a rich, ginger flecked brown. 

When Trott tried to hit him again, the vampire slammed Trott into the wall beside the door. The impact knocked the wind out of Trott.

“What the fuck?!” the vampire snarled. “Seriously? Can you stop that?”

Trott gasped, sucking in air. He could feel his heart pounding as he struggled against the grip pinning him to wall. This was not what he expected, not how he imagined dying. He’d survived the initial chaos of the Change at the London hospital where he worked, assisting trauma victim and the overworked doctors treating patients often covered in bites. Hospital security had taken down two vampires in the entrance before they had to lock down the building. Trott remembered the first 48 hours as a mess of screaming and blood and pale faces. Even during that mad two days, he’d never been face to face with an angry vampire like this. He kept struggling, even knowing the vampire was stronger and faster than him. The more Trott wriggled, the harder the vampire gripped him.

“For fuck’s sake will you calm down?” the vampire hissed. 

“Fuck you!” Trott cursed and brought one leg up, thinking to kick out or at least push those sharp teeth further away. 

The vampire grunted and pressed forward, crowding against Trott to reduce his leverage. His body was pressed against Trott’s, distressingly solid and firm. Trott fought to find some way free, trying not to look too closely at the vampire pinning him to the wall. His heart pounded, and his thoughts spiralled out of control. All he could think about was the weight of the body pressed to his, how easily the vampire boxed him in, pinned his arms to his sides.

“For fuck’s sake,” the vampire hissed in Trott’s ear. “I’m not trying to kill you! I work here!”

“What?” Trott mumbled, caught off guard.

“I’m starting new week in the research department.” He laughed and pulled back slightly to look Trott in the eye with a cheeky grin. “Do you have a boner, mate?”

Trott gaped at him. He couldn’t think of what to say as the vampire released him and took a step backwards. His eyes were still glowing with that intense, inner light that marked everyone who had Changed in the plague. The punch hadn’t left a mark on his cheek, at least not one Trott could see. The guy was scruffy, and looked more like he should be busking for change on a street corner than peering into a microscope. In other circumstances, Trott would have thought about asking him out for a drink.

“Who are you again?” Trott managed. He sagged slightly against the wall, uncomfortably aware he was half hard. His hand hurt, his knuckles stinging. He was lucky he’d done such a piss poor job of it or he might have broken his hand on the vampire’s jaw.

“Alex Smith, here to work in the lab?” He raised his eyebrows. “Nobody mentioned the new guy?”

Trott looked away, closing his eyes. The email from his supervisor had mentioned a name, one so generic Trott instantly forgot it. Alex Smith. He could feel his heart still pounding, leaving a flush in his face and his dick half hard in his pants. This was incredibly mortifying. Being attacked by a vampire would be less awful than this moment where he both punched a coworker and revealed a deeply unfortunate fetish.

“No one told me you were a vampire,” Trott said, looking at the floor. 

“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me.” Smith ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. “I doubt everyone’s gonna be happy about it, but what can you do? Hopefully they aren’t all going to try to punch me.”

“Jesus fuck.” Trott closed his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his heart. 

“Thought I could come in, get a look round before meeting everyone.” Smith sounded apologetic now. “One of the security guards mentioned you were working, so I thought… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“Right.” Trott took another deep breath. “Sorry for trying to punch you. I thought… well. You know.”

“It’s okay.” Smith held out his hand. “Alex Smith, biologist.”

“Chris Trott, hematologist.” Trott shook his hand. 

“The blood guy!” Smith’s eyes widened, and his smile looked genuine. “Great! I can’t wait for us to be working together!”

Trott looked askance at him, wondering why Smith was so enthusiastic. Trott had just tried to punch him, assuming he was a murderer, and he’d popped a boner like some horny teenager in a carpark. If the situation was reversed, Trott wasn’t so sure he’d forgive and forget so easily. Maybe Smith was going to keep it for some other moment. Maybe he’d use it to make fun of Trott to their coworkers, manipulating the levers of social hierarchies to make up for being a vampire. Trott stopped trying to spin out the possibilities as his head throbbed from whacking into the wall. 

“Sorry but -- how did they even let you in here? I mean, it isn’t like you’re going to be at the Monday morning standups or… where are you going to stay?” The questions all bubbled up out of Trott, surprising him and Smith both.

“I can come to meetings, most of the building doesn’t have windows.”

“But a vampire, really?”

Smith took a breath. Trott wondered if he’d crossed a line. Society was still trying to figure out how to accommodate people and vampires in the same spaces. But what else could he call him? 

“Look, I wouldn’t be here if the people in charge didn’t think that I could handle myself,” Smith said in a careful, deliberate voice. “I’ve had to do a lot to prove myself. I know what everyone expects -- all I want is the chance to show I can help.”

Trott pushed away from the wall. The knot was forming on the back of his head but he didn’t think it was serious. Just painful and embarrassing. He carefully gathered up the pieces of the broken mug, listening to Smith. He couldn’t help but notice how rich his voice sounded. Was that the Change? It had to be. No one would have a beautiful voice and be a biologist. He’d be on X-Factor winning a record deal or something.

“That still isn’t the most reassuring thing in the world.” Trott checked the kettle. Hot enough still. “You drink blood. The breakroom doesn’t stock blood.”

“I’m on the new standard rationing system they’re going to roll out in January,” Smith said in a quiet voice. His pushed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie while he watched Trott dump the pieces of his broken mug in the trash.

“Okay.” Trott pulled a paper cup out of the stack. Drinking tea out of a disposable cup was irritating but he didn’t have a choice. Trott was not going to use some stranger’s mug out of the kitchen sink. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll receive packets of donated blood from an official source. They’re still figuring out how much they want to give out at once.” 

“That’s not going to help the hospitals,” Trott grumbled.

“It’s not blood that can be used for transfusions or anything,” Smith said a bit defensively. “I’m doing my best not to hurt anyone.”

“That…” Trott paused before dropping the tea bag in his cup. “Is that even safe? Or legal?”

“Guess we’ll find out.” Smith shrugged his shoulders. His smile was forced.

Silently, Trott stared into his tea. He wondered if Smith had bitten anyone after the Change. Probably. The better question was how many people, and if he’d killed anyone. The whole situation was weird. But he had desperately wanted some help in the lab, and who better to ask about vampire blood proteins than an actual vampire? 

Smith shuffled around the breakroom, straightening up a chair that got knocked over earlier. He was kind of cute, with the scruff and the slightly too long hair. The confused fear and arousal from earlier hadn’t quite left Trott. Surreptitiously, he adjusted himself in his jeans. 

“You want to see our office?” Trott jerked his head towards the door. “I’ll show you around.”

 

* * *

 

Trott stayed home on Sunday. It was a grey, damp October day and he didn’t unpack any boxes. Instead he curled up in bed in his boxers, his laptop propped up on a breakfast tray. The only light in the room came from his screen, washing out Trott’s skin. There was something cozy about it, staying home huddled up in the gloom. Outside it rained intermittently, bands of storms rolling through. Somewhere in the distance a siren sounded. 

He turned on his VPN and began surfing for very particular videos. The sites got taken down often, and Trott never saved or bookmarked them. It forced him to work a bit to find what he wanted. On a likely site, he scrolled through the categories searching for men on men. A promising thumbnail caught his eye and he clicked. The video opened on his screen. The quality wasn’t especially good. It had that amateur look Trott preferred in his pornography. The shadows were grainy, and sometimes the audio stuttered. The camera wobbled as if it was hand held. It felt real. It probably was.

On screen, the vampire grabbed the man and shoved him against the wall. They grappled, crashing around the small living room. The man put up a good fight, but the vampire was bigger and stronger. He pinned the guy to the wall, and slipped his hands into a pair of conveniently dangling restraints. Trott’s breath came faster, and he slipped his hand inside his boxers. Before the vampire even bit the guy in the video, Trott was hard. The man in the video writhed, pinned to the wall by the vampire’s body. Trott stroked himself, imagining himself against the wall struggling against the stronger vampire. The memory of Smith holding him against the wall in the breakroom flashed through his mind, and Trott moaned. He moved his hand faster, trying to capture that feeling of danger and helplessness. On his screen, the man cried out when the vampire bit him. Trott groaned and jacked himself off. He gripped his own throat, not nearly tight or hard enough but it was something. The man in the video was moaning “please” over and over. Trott came with a low moan, spilling hot, sticky come on his stomach. 

For a long, shuddering moment Trott just laid there against the pillows with his eyes closed. He didn’t want to move. But his shrinking cock and the drying mess on his hand needed cleaning. Reluctantly, Trott climbed out of bed. He leaned over and closed the video, scrubbing his history with a few quick clicks.

In the bathroom, Trott washed his hands and wiped himself off with a towel. The light over the mirror was painfully bright after the darkness of his bedroom. He wondered if the government security monitoring the project knew all about his habit. He tried to be careful. But if they knew, they let it keep happening. If they knew, they let him work on this project anyway. Maybe it was just blackmail material in case he got out of line. Trying to think of all the possibilities made his head hurt. It was paranoia, he told himself. They had better things to worry about than whether their scientists were jacking it to vampire porn.

Barefoot, Trott ambled into the kitchen. The narrow kitchen had a window over the sink, the pale daylight just enough that he didn’t have to turn on the overhead light. Trott opened the fridge, pulling out a bottle of lemonade. Staring at the sparse contents, he found himself wondering what Smith’s fridge looked like. Did he keep blood in it? Did he eat meat, like some people did to try to take the edge off the hunger? Was he living somewhere in the same complex as the rest of the employees? So many questions without answers.

Trott drank the lemonade straight out of the bottle standing over the sink. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.

 

* * *

 

Monday morning, Trott opened his office door with a sense of trepidation. He wore a purple plaid button down, and his nice umber trousers. There were meetings on Mondays and it was a good idea to look professional, or at least as professional as he could manage. He’d shaved, and made sure his hair wasn’t a mess. 

The office was empty, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Then he felt vaguely embarrassed with himself. He hung up his coat on the back of the door and looked around. There was a stack of binders on the other desk, as well as a cardboard box. A leather jacket was slung over the back of the chair. 

Trott sat down heavily at his desk. It took him a moment to realize something was different. The mug sat just in front of his monitor, towards the right side. It was white, and Trott turned it to read the text.

_ World’s Hottest Hematologist  _ curved around the side in large black letters.

Trott couldn’t help smiling. There wasn’t a note or a card, not even a post-it. Just the new mug. Maybe it was even flirting, maybe it was an apology for scaring the shit out of him over the weekend. Maybe this guy wasn’t going to pick on Trott or be an asshole or try to kill him. The possibilities spun out, more hopeful than Trott had imagined in months. He picked it up and went down to the break room to make a cup of coffee.


End file.
